Burnt Cookies
by Blue Feelings
Summary: I'm already the gay version of Quicksilver, why not add vampires. Well, I wanted excitement. So, thanks Bella? Maybe? In which a young man with a love of food and a bad habit of burning his shoes finds his way in life, with vampire boyfriends and a human tag along.
1. Prologue

I did not expect to wake up to my phone this morning.

I expected to wake up to a dark sky. I dreamed about a large plate of eggs with half a plate of greasy hash browns and a conglomeration of cheese, polish sausage, noodles, and more eggs. A half-gallon of water plus a glass of orange juice. God, my mouth waters just thinking of it.

What I got was a tired rendition of a sob story.

The good ex-chief Blake Santiago called me at five-freaking-am because his friend had a shitty night with his teenage daughter. Not that I can really talk much about shitty teens.

From what I was able to hear over Blake's gruff monotonous tone, the chief's daughter had a bad break-up. I can't really remember much about the phone call: I was hungry, sue me.

I think Blake could tell that I wasn't all there. I'm also pretty sure he slurped down some saliva when I was making my egg-noodle-sausage masterpiece. I should make him some.

Anyway, the breakup. So, the chief's name is Swaine or something, and his daughter got involved with a rich kid from a family that moved a lot. Blake said something about Alaska? Well, this kid left chiefs' daughter in the woods and she just curled up and waited for him to come back.

Weird Flex but okay.

Blake ranted about how rude the kid was to chiefs' daughter. I believe his exact words were "Fucka just left ha there and swanned off to Timbuctoo o' some shite". Honestly, I chocked on my eggs. He laughed.

So, after a couple hours of catching up to Blake, and hearing him swear at a desk lamp for a solid five-minute period, I had to hang up and go to work.

Not without eating two protein bars before I left my apartment. I'm still a growing boy.

The walk to work was normal in that it took forever. Seriously, I was moving in molasses or something. My muscles are twitching with how much I had to clench in order to stop myself from jogging to the bakery. Of course, my jogging would more than likely be like a pro sprinter to the people around me. It would be hilarious though; seeing everyone's faces once I just randomly shot through the crowd.

I wonder what they would think about me. Maybe I was late for work? Had a bad day? Drugs? Probably drugs. I don't really live in the best part of the city. New York gets crazy man. It's better living in the dirt-cheap place I've got though. For one, I can afford to get excessive amounts of groceries. For two, I get to see a lot of my friends.

I like seeing my friends. They're super chill, even though they would pull a knife on someone without hesitation.

Although, I'm getting kind of bored with how slow life here has gotten. Not like, normal slow. Maybe I'm getting faster? That would be fucking suckish.

Getting to the bakery was a godsend. The owner lets me eat the product that must be taken down every three hours. For free. For. Free.

I wasn't expecting to wake up to a call, and I wasn't expecting Blake to call back asking for a favor either.


	2. Chapter 1 Part 1

I'm free, after a solid three hours of listening to the bakery's customers shout their orders out like maniacs. The rush for sugar in this part of town is insane. Perhaps it has to do with how cheap the owner makes the donuts? I think that's it. Honestly, they only made the things cheaper because the cops are changing shift right about now.

Did they do that on purpose? Yes, yes, they did. Did I write the suggestion on a bright pink sticky note and slip it into the financial books? I don't know what you're talking about. Maybe.

The owner always gives me my check with a pink sticky note on the envelope though: I think he's on to me. Oh no. What ever shall I do. Ah, I'm mentally putting the back of my hand on my forehead and bending to the side dramatically now. That's fun.

Regardless, it's funny as hell. The cops agree. Unfortunately, my friends don't stop by the shop very often because of the high cop presence. I don't blame them, but it would be nice to shove a nice, warm, freshly baked pastry down some of those skinny ass throats.

Damn, I'm hungry now.

Oh, thank god. All that inner monologuing made the trip to my apartment seem shorter. How much you want to bet I was walking at a faster-than-dazed pace while staring at the ground and not blinking? Judging by the look my neighbor is giving me, wary and a little bit done with the world, that would not be stretching the situation.

Oh well. Like I care. I have too much to do right now. A very important project. Guess what it is.

No really, guess.

Don't want to play? That's okay, because you're just the person in my head bro. Anyway, I'm making some food. Got to get that nutrition folks. And no matter how much I love the slightly stale pieces of heaven the owner lets me run away with, that is not a proper meal.

I'd probably pass out if I only ate sweets. Pity.

So yeah, dinner. I'm thinking maybe some of my dad's lasagna: I've been missing him lately. I think he doesn't get a day off for a couple of weeks, but even then, I don't know if he'll be close enough to hang out with me.

You, know? I'm going to make three pans of my dad's lasagna. I'm going to eat some sugary sweetness, so I don't eat all the lasagna. And then I'm going to take all three pans of the amazingness that my dad has created, seriously I love that shit so much, and I'm going to break into Adam's apartment.

When I say 'break into' I mean I'm going to send him a picture of the wonderous sustenance, I _really_ like dad's lasagna, and he's going to send me the address of a safe place to bring it. I don't know what I would walk into if I barged into Adam's place. I don't really want to either.

He nasty.

Seriously, I've gotten the talk from him like, ten times in the last three years. It's like he forgets that I'm twenty years old and not as naïve as I used to be. I'm not exactly a virgin here. Not that I'm going to ever tell the boys that. They'd probably scar the poor hook-ups; which is not good. Not good at all. I'd never get another hook-up.

I'm making the lasagna now, but I'm selfish. I would tell you every step to make it, but you are me: I am talking, more like thinking, to myself. Congrats me, I'm crazy. This crazy, selfish me would tell myself how to make the best lasagna ever, but I'm still selfish. I don't want to accidently say the recipe out loud and have a neighbor try it. It's mine.

The neighbors like to put a cup to the wall and listen for recipes, so my worry isn't entirely unfounded. I know this because the old lady next door forgets that there is still liquid in her glass. She has tried to steal my recipes so many times that my wall has hickies.

The walls are fuckin thin in this apartment complex. It's getting to the point where I don't think that I'll get my deposit back. I could have used that money to get more food, man. Food is my life. If I don't eat enough, I get super grumpy, so say the boys. The memory of the boys shoving forkfuls of spaghetti into my gob makes me shudder. That was a horrific time.

Delicious, but horrific.

I'm half-way done with creating the three pans of my dad's _phen-fucking-nomenal _lasagna when my phone rings. It's not a nice feeling, let me tell you. I was just peacefully layering the meat sauce, cheese, and noodles… where was I going with that? Oh, right. The phone rang during the best part of making lasagna, bar the actual eating of said food. Guh! My mouth is watering too much.

Now, when the betrayal of a shitty piece of tech decided to warble its way through my dinner plans, ahem, sorry. I choked on my saltiness. When I heard the phone, I thought something along the lines of, _Hey, wouldn't it be really chill if that was Adam asking for some wonderful food from me? _Wishful thinking. One hundred percent wishful thinking.

It was Blake. I have never wanted to strangle someone over the phone more than that moment. I was so close to finishing my lasagna! I ranted to him for like, three minutes letting him know just how upset I was. Basically, I whined at him. He laughed.

Until he didn't. His laugh wasn't even that strong to begin with; more like a weak chuckle. You have to understand, this man can shake a building down the street with his laughter, when it's real. Let's just say that I stopped ranting real quick after I heard that weak-ass chuckle.

Chuckles like that from Blake is never good. It reminds me of when he tried to get me to wear a wire. I was eleven.

Anyway, after ten minutes of overthinking from me, a couple seconds to Blake, I decided to just rip the band aid off. It was painful. It was awkward. It was long. Blake kept apologizing, which he never does. I kept holding back sighs. My neighbor made a new hickie on my wall. Blake and I made plans to meet up tonight. At least I got to finish my lasagna while talked with Blake.

I'm stalling.

Blake asked me if I liked living in New York. He shifted around whatever topic he wanted to go over with inconsequential small talk, then asked if he could come over for dinner. I accepted and told him that dinner would be done in two hours. Turns out I'm not going to give the other two pans to Adam and the boys. I'm stress eating. Blake will be too.

I also told him to bring a cake. He chuckled weakly again.

~ Two Hours Later~

Blake knocked on my door with all the gentle force of a bulldozer. I ran over to the poor piece of beaten wood, took a deep breath, and opened the door. Blake blinked at me.

"Tha was fast."

Shit. Um, diversion! How do I redirect attention! My heart skips and I can feel the disgusting film of nervous sweat start to build. Must. Be. Calm.

A sweet smell reaches me. It's cake. The cake. Double layered German Chocolate cake with the Coconut Pecan frosting that isn't really German but whatever. My eyes land on the marvelous object held by a rough, slightly shaking han- wait, _slightly shaking_?! Whatever Blake wants to talk about has got him more nervous than I've ever seen him. Macho man Blake. That was said in a fond tone of mocking.

Christ. All of that panicking took enough time for Blake to actually laugh; real this time.

"I expected nothin else son! Just like ya to get so worked up about some sugar!" More belly laughter. I'm glad. He was worrying me more than that one time when he dropped three dozen doughnuts that were meant for his boss. The irony was not lost on either of us.

"Blake. C'mon in. I made way too much food." Blake gave me a look I am well acquainted with: deadpan. I love it so much.

"Okay, maybe not too much. A lot then." I smirked.

"How much is 'a lot' son, cuz I ain't got much room left unda my belt ta be eatin like ya for too much longa." His deadpan didn't change.

I would like to point out that this conversation is happening in the doorway of my humble abode. I'm so rude. I should have asked him to enter earlier. I do, however, know the best way to rectify this situational rudeness.

I slowly open the door wider in order to let Blake see the kitchen counter over my shoulder. The perfect angle to see all three of my large pans almost overflowing with delicious sustenance. Careful not to let my eyes wander from his face of course. I want to get the slow morph of emotion in high definition, thank you very much.

Blake's facial muscles do not disappoint. Deadpan turns to disbelief to dread and then acceptance.

"Don't worry Blake." I snicker out. He turns back to me. I can see the dread growing. "I'll finish anything you can't eat."

A pause.

More time in the pause.

Blake shoves passed me, well, I let Blake shove passed me. He places the great looking cake next to the smallest pan and stands back.

"All of it?" Comes his quiet whisper. This is fabulous.

"All of it."

"Really?"

"Really really."

"Jesus kid." Our laughter fades out into the ambience of a questionably cleaned hallway as my front door closes. I am not fool enough to believe that our laughter will last, and I have the strangest feeling that our conversation has something to do with that Swaine guy from this morning.

More importantly though, I have some lasagna to demolish and a cake to erase from existence. Hehe, have I made you hungry?

**Note for legal reasons: I do not own Twilight. I do not own Quicksilver either. I should probably make this disclaimer go onto the prologue; however, seeing as how I didn't really mention much of anything, even used the wrong name for Charlie, I think I'm fine. I got a plot bunny while thinking of the possibilities of having super speed while studying for a bullshit class, which I passed, so that's out in the open now. Any relation to living people, dead people, and/or actual places is purely coincidental. I draw inspiration from an eclectic pool and do some basic research in order to remind myself of what I wanted to write. **


	3. Chapter 1 Part 2

~Previously in Burning Cookies~

"_Jesus kid." Our laughter fades out into the ambiance of a questionably cleaned hallway as my front door closes. I am not fool enough to believe that our laughter will last and I have the strangest feeling that our conversation has something to do with that Swaine guy from this morning. _

_ More importantly though, I have some lasagna to demolish and a cake to erase from existence. Hehe, have I made you hungry?_

~Continuation~

Unfortunately, Blake and I have had some serious topics breached in my tiny kitchen that doubles as a living room before. Because of our experience in the unpleasant action of awkward conversations, we have a system. I make dinner, Blake brings cake. We eat and catch up with the fun shit, the light shit. Then when our stomachs have been able to digest a little, roughly thirty minutes, the one with the bad news starts talking.

It's well past the thirty minutes. Blake and I have been sitting at my scratched-up table staring at random parts of my apartment for the last hour or so. It's driving me insane. I've never seen Blake so nervous before. I thought his hands shaking before was bad, but now I can see his right eye twitching every couple of seconds. It was funny the first three times, but that shit got real old real quick.

Four hundred fifty-eight twitches later, he finally does something other than show an impressive amount of focus, or lack thereof, on the newest Hickie on my wall. It's a bit smaller now, but still wet and I really don't think I'm getting my deposit back.

"I'm inna spot here son," Blake mumbles out, "and I don' think I can ge' out a it on ma own." He sighs and rubs his face with some super wrinkly hands. He should put some lotion on, but the macho man probably won't entertain the idea.

I know he's going to ask me for help. It's more than likely the reason for his nervousness throughout our little soiree. While he works up the gumption to say what exactly he needs from me, we both know I won't ask myself, I think back on the past few days. It'll take a while anyway.

Blake hasn't shown any concerning behavior until this morning in that phone call. I mean, he did show a bit of hesitancy with going out drinking with his buddies last week, but that could be a lot of things that might not need any worry. He could be finally thinking about the reason why he has a 'beer belly', might be trying to save some money for a project, or something worse. I doubt that would be any reason to ask me for something though.

With the way he's been acting I would think that he'd be asking me to talk to my buddies across town; however, said buddies don't necessarily do things legally. And, well, Blake is a retired cop, so, I really doubt that's the case.

Come to think of it, Blake has _never_ asked me a certified favor before. Never ever. He did ask for some food for a pot-luck once, but he bought the ingredients and let me use his kitchen, so it doesn't really count. I also got to eat the leftovers for free. Loved that.

I was beginning to think that Blake would be a macho man to the point of doing everything on his own, bar cooking large pots of spicy chili.

My conclusion to this is that Blake got into something that he either physically can't do, he's getting old so that's allowed, or he doesn't know how to do it. Whatever 'it' is. Based on his reaction to that Swaine guys' situation this morning, I have the strange feeling it has something to do with a teenaged girl.

Teenaged girls are not Blakes strong point, which sounds really weird now that I hear myself think that. Blake doesn't have kids, and he left all of the compassionate talking to his partner when he was active. He doesn't know how to handle a teenager. Hell, he barely handles _me_. I'm not exactly a normal young dude either.

"Ya member the sit'ation with ma pal in Warshin'ton?" Ah, so it is about the Swaine guy and his daughter. I nod, but I can't help but think about Blakes pronunciation of _Wash_ington. Seriously, that added 'r' frustrates me to the nines. Dads' mom did the same thing, so dad says.

"Well, the Chief called again and asked for help," why would Swaine need help with a teenage breakup, "somethin' about the girl no' respondin' or somethin'." With this I scrunch my face as slowly as I can manage, it wouldn't do to have my face suddenly change expression in less than a second. I plaster some incredulousness on my gob and stare at Blake. The emotion is real though: I don't understand why the kid is so broken up about a dude leaving her in the woods.

Total red flag. Ten out of ten do not recommend for a healthy relationship. I'll leave the question of whether I'm talking about the wood stunt or the despondency unanswered. Seriously.

I don't have to say anything for Blake to continue. With his fist clenching so tightly around that poor napkin, I'd say he agrees with my expressed emotion.

"The Chief is askin' me if a know anyone tha' can help 'is girl outta the funk she's in," oh no, "an' ya know I'm not good with the whole _heart-to-heart_ and _talkin' about feelin's _thing." No. I see where this is going. Fuck no! Don't ask me. Please. I just make cookies, man. I can't deal with girls and their boyfriends. Hell, I can't even deal with _my own_ boyfriends. There's a good god-damned reason why I only have hook-ups!

"I thoughtta how a dealt with _yer_ teens an' then a thoughtta somethin' betta, and yer gonna hate me for it." He's gonna do it! Fuck!

"Whadaya say ta movin' to Warshin'ton and helpin' out the girl?" He did it. Of course, he sighed it out like it pained him. It could have. He's not one for asking for help and here he is asking me to move across the country to get this teenaged girl out of a depressive episode brought on by a _boyfriend_ of all things. Again, red flag for that relationship.

I've lived here most of my life, man. I don't know what to do. If he hadn't asked me, I could just try to ignore the situation; maybe give Blake some support via food and sweets. Now? Now I have to tell him yes and leave my whole life for a stranger, or no and leave Blake to suffer. Each has its pros and cons, but which is worth it?

Fuck me sideways. What would you do?

Hello? Voice in my head? Consciousness that doesn't sound like me that I make to help me deal with shit and feel better about not making the decision myself but actually I am?

Shit, I watch too many movies. I've probably been staring at Blake, not blinking, for a few minutes now. He looks worried. Double shit.

"Look, son, a know ya gotta lot here. Ya know a wouldna asked ya if a could think of any otha way to help this kid. Chief says she won' go out with ha friends or do anythin' but school. She refuses ta go back ta her moms and therapy's outta the question." Blake looks done with the world now. He genuinely doesn't know how to help Swaine deal with the kid. "Imma go there to, jus', a don' know what ta do, ya get me?" I've never seen him so tired.

I finally blink, several times. Too fast. It looks like I'm closing my eyes and just breathing to Blake. I can't decide right now. I can't make up my mind. So I tell him. I just hope he doesn't hate me for not agreeing right away.

"Let me think on it, Blake. Like you said, I've got a lot here. I'll let you know soon. I promise." My voice is low. For a moment I think it's too low after a while of no response, but then Blake finally nods. He sighs as though the world is on his shoulders, and I see all of his years in his eyes and his wrinkles.

"Expected nothin' else." He nods a couple more times. Each bob of his head getting firmer and more determined as he goes. And then he stops and looks up at me. His eyes are firm, but not unkind. Thank fuck.

"I'll letcha think on it a while, who knows, the kid could be up an' about by tha' time." His voice is a weak attempt at levity. We both know that he wouldn't be asking my help if the kid could bounce back in a couple of days. No fucking way.

I nod anyway. I'm a bit stuck in my head though. I trying to figure out why a breakup could be so horrible as to warrant such a response. What did that boy do? What the fuck kind of relationship did they even have?

"Think a've ovastayed ma welcome, son. Thanks for the meal. A'll show maself out." Blake slowly stands and pauses by the newest Hickie. It's dry now, but water damage doesn't leave so easily. I don't get out of my seat: Blake doesn't mind.

"See ya son." And he's gone.

What a cluster fuck. The girl is apparently a husk over a breakup. I _still_ don't get it. Should I? Person I made up in my head, please don't hate me for not understanding. I've never had a relationship deep enough for… _feelings_. At least, nothing with the heart involved.

Will I even be able to help the girl? What was her name though? Shit! How am I supposed to help someone if I don't even pay attention to her name? Or her dads for that matter, I _know_ Swaine isn't their last name. I just can't for the life of me remember what it really is. That, and I'm too ashamed to ask Blake because that would be admitting that I wasn't paying a hundred percent attention when he was talking. His accent doesn't help much either.

What could I even do though? Shove a cookie down her throat?! Hey, that isn't such a bad idea. If she's so out of it, I doubt she's feeling any appetite. If her behavior is so concerning that her dad called out a favor it must be going on for a while, right? She'll need food and someone to sit with her to make sure she eats it and digests it. She won't like it, but it will get her nutrients so that she can think more clearly. I know I can't think clearly on an empty stomach.

There's some science in there somewhere.

Can I even move out that quickly? I won't be getting my deposit back, so I don't have to worry about that, but I'm not swimming in cash here either. Most of my paycheck goes to food. Shit, paycheck. This morning, Blake said they live in a small town. Small towns mean less jobs, right? Less jobs mean it's harder to get one that pays enough for rent, utilities, and food. Could be wrong. Doesn't matter.

What about moving costs? I don't have much shit in this apartment, but I want to take my kitchen stuff with me. And the food. That shit's expensive enough as it is. I can't afford to leave a full pantry behind. A pantry? Fuck! Is there even a place to live there? I'll have to be close enough to the Chief's house to run there without creating suspicion. If I'm across the state and I get there without a car, in the wee hours of the morning, or whenever she freaking needs me there, it'll look weird. What about-

Wait… Hold up. Now, wait just a damned second…

Let me rewind.

"_Will I even be able to help the girl?" "Hey, that isn't such a bad idea."_ _"I want to take my kitchen stuff with me." "I'll have to be close enough to the Chief's house to run there without creating suspicion."_

Holy shit! This is so not good. I'm acting like I've already decided to go. No. No, I didn't decide yet! I didn't have that devil on the shoulder moment with a comical rendition of stereotypical red tridents and pure white togas!

I have friends here! Sure, they can't hang out all the time, but that's normal. And I have a lease that I need to stay loyal to. Even if I'll never see the deposit money and this place is a bit shitty for general privacy. And dad… dad lives here. Sometimes. I can't leave my dad! He's the only family that cares about me! But… Blake cares about me too.

Blake _never _asked for a favor before now. He helped me out when I first got taken into the station for being seen with the guys. He didn't push for me to wear a wire when the other cops were all for it. He doesn't question how I can eat two- and three-quarter pans of lasagna in one sitting, _then _three-fourths of a cake… _without _getting sick.

Well, shit. Guess I'm going. The guys won't like this. Then again, they did say that loyalty was one of the things that keeps a healthy relationship, not necessarily romantic thank god, going strong. They won't be able to get mad at me for using the lessons they gave me. And, this kid clearly needs someone in her corner that's closer to her age but still mature. Well, mature enough. The other kids I imagine she used to hang out with are probably still in High School. Lots of hormones changing things up there.

I'm slightly less likely to get influenced by those hormones. One would think with my… affliction, um, that I would age faster. Apparently not. It's like I've been stuck in a ball of hormones for a hundred years. Not fun. But the experience has allowed me to push past that bundle of chemically driven emotions enough to the point where I can probably give her some sound advice. Maybe.

And anyway, the guys can't stop me from living my life. If I want to help someone then I will. I can still keep in touch with them. Phones exist for a reason ya know? And I could get a job in, what was it, Forks? Really?

So, I can get a job in Forks, and learn some new recipes from some locals if they let me. I could learn some different cultural dishes. If worst comes to worst, I can bunk in Swaines, fuck it I'll just call him the Chief from now on, house for a while. I'll swing it like he should let me because I'm helping his daughter, but I doubt it. Never mind. Chief will never let a strange man bunk in his house, _especially _with his daughter the way she is right now. I don't even want to anymore. Jesus.

The bakery can handle me quitting, I'll just have to give them the two weeks' notice if I ever want to come back. The jobs really good and I'll miss the freebies, but the girl, albeit a stranger, is more important than three semi-stale bagels every other day. I'm not in school anymore: I couldn't afford to continue, so I won't have to worry about transferring.

My lease is up in two weeks anyway. I admit, I was using it as an excuse. I'll have to pay for the Hickies and some damage from moving too fast for the floors, skid marks man, but I'll use my emergency funds for that. What? Did you expect me to not budget my meager earnings? Fuck that!

I eat a lot, but I can't afford to just spray the grocery stores in cash for the food. I have to be smart with the paycheck or I'll be left without a non-melted pair of shoes or a dent-less doorknob. I squeeze too hard when I'm in a hurry, so the knobs have my hands imprinted onto them sometimes.

Really, the only thing I have here that I can't have in Washington is my random hangout with the guys and the rare outing with my dad. I can call the guys whenever, and dads been taking longer jobs since I turned eighteen, so we don't go out as often. He might even be able to stop by in Washington from time to time. That'd be cool.

Okay. I'll go help. I'm just going to let Blake stew for a bit because the Chief is a stranger. Next on the agenda: informing dad.

* * *

**A/N: **So, It's been a while. I can't remember if I said that I don't own Twilight or the X-men universe. I don't own them. Shocking, right? By the way, this is not meant to be a cross-over between Twilight and the X-men, I just really like Quicksilvers gift and had an idea. I would have labeled it a cross-over if it was one. In all actuality, Quicksilver and my OCs gifts are only generically similar because I didn't read up on everything QS can do.

**My Response to the Reviews From the Last Chapter:**

MooNOrchiD

Thanks for the compliment. :) Unfortunately, I won't be making a 'buddy-cop relationship' between OC and Bella. OC is not a cop and he never will be: he just doesn't have the patience for it. I had planned to give Bella a bit more personality, but I still want to respect Meyers basic idea. Therefore, any 'gay!magic' will be on the gay OCs part, and dry humor will only be as good as my writing abilities allow. Hopefully, I don't second guess it all out of existence. Thank you for your thoughts and ideas I really appreciate the effort. :)

NewBlueTrue

I am also excited to see where this story leads. I have a basic idea planned out, but we all know sometimes stories have minds of their own. Thanks for expressing your interest, I appreciate it. :)


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